The Barber Chair
by LadyDivine91
Summary: So it became a habit that, when Crowley was having a particularly hard day, he'd go to Aziraphale's shop, walk straight into his back room, and sit down in that chair, which Aziraphale kept empty for him. Then, without prompting, Aziraphale would close up shop and join him. He'd warm oil in his hands, massage Crowley's scalp, and say in a soft, soothing voice: "Talk to me."


Aziraphale had a barber's chair in his bookshop, tucked away in the corner of his private back room. He didn't use it too often. It was big and bulky and entirely impractical. It held stuff he needed but had no room for.

Mainly because the chair was taking up that space.

It had been a present from his barber, Steven, before the man retired and handed the business down to his son. Aziraphale had been one of his best and most loyal customers for close to four decades, but the man never once questioned why he never seemed to age, especially since forty-something year old looking Aziraphale had started seeing Steven when he'd turned twenty, and now that he was sixty, Aziraphale looked exactly the same.

Aziraphale suspected that Steven knew he was an angel. Some genuinely kind-hearted humans can detect angelic presences, along with dogs, ferrets, birds, cactus, and children under the age of seven. But Steven never said anything. He simply counted himself among the fortunate and went about his day.

Steven had said he remembered Aziraphale commenting on how much he liked the chair. It came from Italy and had cherubs carved into the base. That, of course, had caught Aziraphale's eye. But it also had an energy about it – a positive energy. Aziraphale felt flashes of love and comfort when he sat in it, garnered from the years it had been kept in that shop: all the first haircuts it had seen, the young men who'd sat in it to get their pre-enlistment crew cuts, the homeless Steven gave free cuts and shaves to every weekend, the boys who had their hair cleaned up for their first communions who then came back years later to get their hair cut for their weddings, and so on. In and of itself, it was an artifact of love over time, a symbol of growth and joy and community.

It swelled with nostalgia, but Aziraphale appreciated it most for the spirit in which it was given him.

No one sat in it for forever until Crowley unearthed it from underneath piles of old books, newspapers, and tax paperwork. He took to it immediately, probably because of how far it reclined and yet he could still drink his whiskey without spilling a drop. He got in the habit of draping his long hair over the back so he didn't trap it beneath his shoulders and pull his neck. This became the new normal – Crowley reclining in the barber's chair with Aziraphale only a few feet away, drinking and laughing and listening to music until night turned into day.

Once, for no reason he can explain (Aziraphale still considers it a temptation on the part of his needy demon friend) Aziraphale got up from his chair and started running his fingers through Crowley's hair, working out the knots, combing it completely through, then finally making a braid. He didn't mind doing it, he just didn't understand it. But temptation or not, he had to admit, he liked the intimacy of it.

It became a thing with the two of them. Something about his angel's hands in his hair along with the general good vibes from the chair caused Crowley to let go, vent everything that had been bothering him that day, discuss through how it made him feel.

It was almost like giving a confession, and if he didn't think too hard or long about that, it made him feel freer, closer to Heaven than he had felt in a long time.

It gave him hope.

Whether that was good or bad is an entirely different story, but it's not this one.

By the time Aziraphale was done removing the knots from his hair and giving him a braid, Crowley felt relieved. And Aziraphale liked the fact that he could remove these burdens from off his friend's shoulders.

So it became a habit that, when Crowley was having a particularly hard day, he'd go to Aziraphale's shop, walk straight into his back room, and sit down in that chair, which Aziraphale kept empty for him. Then, without prompting, Aziraphale would close up shop and join him. He'd warm oil in his hands, massage Crowley's scalp, and say in a soft, soothing voice: "Talk to me."

_Notes:_

_Okay, for clarification, someone sent me a random prompt in the form of a Bugs Bunny gif, which I can't seem to attach here. It's Daffy Duck sitting in a barber's chair with Bugs as the stylist, and Bugs says, "Talk to me." Prompter said, "Turn this into a GO fic." Welp, here you go XD_


End file.
